Cold Embrace: The Murderers
by blank-nolongerinuseok
Summary: The Morag Tong is spreading across Cyrodiil, and it's time for the Dark Brotherhood to act. Tsrazami journeys to the Sanctuary in Cheydinhal, only to find later that the thugs have already embedded themselves in the very roots of Sithis...
1. Bad News

**Disclaimer: I do not own Oblivion!  
>This is been sitting on my laptop for a while, and I thought it was about time I put it on :) I hope you guys enjoy it! Feedback is really appreciated.<strong>

**...**

**Cold Embrace**

_Chapter One: Bad News_

Tsrazami was not a very happy Khajiit.

Having to travel all the way from Morrowind's Vivec to Cyrodiil's Cheydinhal mostly on foot didn't help. Of course, she should've been thankful that the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary she was searching for wasn't in Anvil – she wouldn't even have bothered trying to get there if that was the case. Gaining permission to travel on boat from Ebonheart in Vvardenfell to the mainland of Morrowind had been difficult enough after the Nerevarine's questing to the continent of Akavir – the native Dunmer and Ordinators of the temple had been trying desperately to stop the Nerevarine from travelling to the extremely dangerous continent, to no avail.

Once on the mainland, Tsrazami had to go the rest of the way on foot. The various creatures in her way weren't the problem. You may be wondering if a furry creature such as Tsrazami could get blisters on her 'heels'. Well, in fact, as she found out during several hours of painful movement, yes, Khajiit could jolly well get horrible blisters.

"This is a bad idea, Tsrazami," her dear friend, Miun-Gei, an Argonian associate, had warned her, "and I'm surprised that one as powerful as the Listener isn't arranging transportation for you! I do not wish for you to find out that us Argonians and Khajiit get the worst blisters in the whole of Tamriel!"

"Tsrazami thinks that beings such as ourselves won't get blisters, our hackles are higher than the oddly fitting boots we wear!" Tsrazami scoffed, not caring for her ever precautious friend's theories. He always had presumptions about everything, and most of them turned out to be wrong anyway.

_Oh, why didn't I listen?_ Tsrazami growled to herself.

Thankfully, as she passed over the tips of the Velothi mountain range, she could see the beautiful view of the city known as Cheydinhal below. Her curiosity peaked, however, when she squinted and could see an old ruined fortress just slightly east of the city. Consulting the map given to her by her own Speaker back in Vvardenfell, she knew the fortress to be named Fort Farragut. Also, on the map, it was marked as the Dark Brotherhood headquarters. Indeed, she'd have to question the Listener about it later.

What pleasantly surprised Tsrazami was that she wasn't going all the way to Bravil to meet Ungolim. It was nice to know that perhaps the Listener had put in the effort of meeting her closer to the Morrowind borders for once.

After three days of travel, she arrived at the gates of Cheydinhal, battered, exhausted and in need of a punching bag with the Listener's face on it. Ungolim could've at least arranged transport for his Murderers, even if they dwelled in the Dunmers' native land!

"Ma'am, are you alright?" the guard just outside the gates asked her, worriedly. You didn't get many visitors to Cheydinhal looking like they'd just run a marathon from Elsweyr to Skyrim – especially not in the middle of the night, like now.

"This Khajiit is absolutely fine, Imperial," Tsrazami snapped, "just open that gate! Or, by..." Whoa. She'd nearly said 'by Sithis' – if she had, the guard would've alerted the authorities, no doubt. _When you're angry, Tsrazami, do not invoke the wrath of Sithis,_ the Khajiit rebuked herself silently.

"Uh, y-yes Ma'am," the guard stuttered, and called timidly above to some unseen men on the battlements to open the gates. What a shy little man. From what Tsrazami could see underneath his helmet, he was young and, to her surprise, a Breton, not an Imperial – which explained why he was so short compared to her. He was probably new to the guard of Cheydinhal. As she passed by him on her way through the gate, his pale blue eyes watched her nervously... as if he suspected something of her, but was too scared to alert any other guards.

Surely Tsrazami wasn't that intimidating? Ah well, at least she was wearing one of Miun-Gei's Enchanter robes instead of her Dark Brotherhood armour. Now, wouldn't it be fun walking into a tavern wearing _that_. It would be like bursting into Adamus Phillida's chambers wearing a shirt that had the words plastered over the top _I worship Sithis and the Night Mother! _and then screaming into his ear until he woke up and arrested you, not only for trespassing and harassment, but for being a member of the Dark Brotherhood too.

Tsrazami arrived at the Abandoned House, no problem. The hostility in the air that she gave off probably warded off any friendly greetings from the townspeople. She picked the lock on the front door and slid inside. She found her way to the hole in the wall at the bottom of the basement and followed the red-lit tunnel until she came to the unholy door of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. It glowed scarlet, its illustration of the Night Mother and her children pulsing like a supernatural vision. She put her paw to the handprint at the top of the door and heard the unearthly, divine voice of Sithis speak, _What is the colour of night?_

"Sanguine, my Brother," Tsrazami whispered, and took a step back as the door creaked open, allowing her entrance to the Sanctuary. She stepped inside, and jumped as the door to the Sanctuary slammed shut loudly behind her, the sound bouncing off the cold, unforgiving stone walls that surrounded the yellow-furred Khajiit. She wasn't used to such fanciness back in Vivec – the best entrance they had was one leading to the sewers, for the Night Mother's sake!

She'd been told to expect the door to give a question, her to give an answer, and if the answer was correct, to receive a 'welcome home'. She didn't hear the ghastly door utter another word – and maybe that was because she was so obviously _not _home, _not _used to this Sanctuary. She wouldn't be welcome at all if it wasn't for her being part of the Dark Brotherhood, despite her fairly low rank.

"Don't be alarmed," a feminine voice said, and Tsrazami was startled again, immediately contradicting what the person had just told her. She'd been in the sanctuary for, what, two seconds, and already the place was full of surprises. "We know our Cyrodiil family customs are slightly different from those of Morrowind."

"Are you criticising the Morrowind Brotherhood already?" Tsrazami hissed, angry again. She knew that the family in Cyrodiil were going to be stuck up anyway, but to be pointing out the flaws of others already was just a little over the top. "Listen here..." she began to rant, but was silenced by the hand that the woman who had spoken raised.

"Do not speak ill towards other family members, novice." The woman's hood hung loosely down the back of her black robes. Her skin, probably once bronze, was an unhealthy yellow, proving that she was one of the Altmer, if her height and the pointy ears that protruded from her curtain of chocolate hair didn't confirm that already.

"I've come here to speak with Ungolim," Tsrazami snarled, "not to argue with an Altmer who is just a little too high and mighty for her own good."

"Ungolim?" the Altmer female echoed, taken aback, ignoring the rest of what the blatantly annoyed Khajiit said. "Ungolim is dead."

Apart from Tsrazami ears flattening and her mouth slightly hanging open, she gave a reaction of, "Oh."

"Yes, 'oh', indeed, Khajiit," the Altmer said dryly. "I assume you mean to speak to the live Listener, rather than the deceased one."

"Uh, yes." Tsrazami took in the black robes that the woman was wearing, compared to her own dark leather armour. "You're... a Speaker?"

"Yes," the Altmer Speaker replied sharply, "now come with me. You wish to share news with the Listener?"

There wasn't much Tsrazami could say to that, apart from a solemn nod of the head, now that she was finally here to speak to the Listener, only to find that it wasn't the Ungolim that she had met just once and absolutely adored. However, she would mourn later, for she had important information to deliver.

They walked down seemingly endless spooky corridors, lit by various candles and burning torches along the walls. Shadows seemed to constantly dart and scatter at the edges of the Khajiit's excellent vision, but when she turned her head to see what the movement was, she was always met by simply soft candlelight, casting the countless nooks and crannies of the Sanctuary into dim, mellow light.

It wasn't long before Tsrazami felt the Altmer's eyes burning into her forehead. She looked up and the Altmer glanced away, concentrating on her light footsteps down the passageway. "You've never been in an official Sanctuary before, have you?"

That wasn't true. She had been in one, just the one time, in Old Mournhold. But it hadn't been nearly as beautifully dark as this one. The Sanctuary she had resided in wasn't official – it had been below Vivec's many cantons, deep in the stinking sewers. Granted, it was out of the way; however, it was possibly the most unpleasant place Tsrazami had ever called 'home' in her life. "Of course I have. What stupid member of the Brotherhood hasn't been?"

"Then why do you look so anxious?"

Tsrazami sighed. "Okay, fine, fine. I've been in an official Sanctuary _once_ – but I've still been in one!"

"The one in Old Mournhold, I presume? There aren't many Sanctuaries in Morrowind, what with the Morag Tong always hunting you."

Tsrazami didn't like that the way the Altmer put the emphasis on 'you', as if they weren't part of the same Family. "Yes... but the one in Old Mournhold was more just like a cavern. This Sanctuary is so much more..." The Khajiit tried to find the right word. "So much more _ornate_."

"Where did you usually live, then, if you didn't have the luxury of a Sanctuary?"

"I lived in a bloody _sewer_, with some other members of the Brotherhood. It stank so bad that eventually we moved our quarters to a cavern near a little shipping village called Seyda Neen." Tsrazami narrowed her bright green cat eyes. "Why are you so interested in me all of a sudden?"

"It is an assassin's job to not just know everything about their target, but to know everything about their Family," the Altmer responded in a monotone.

Tsrazami gave a chuckle. "I just stick with 'keep your friends close and your enemies even closer'. It's the simplest one to deal with – friends are so much more likely to be hurt by your actions. Enemies... the aim _is _to hurt them."

A little warmth entered the Altmer's eyes. "I can relate to you there."

"And how is that?"

"I once killed a friend whom I thought was a traitor, only later I found... that he wasn't. In this business, this profession, we always lose friends and we end up... broken and blamed."

Tsrazami was genuinely surprised by the mix of emotions the Altmer was showing. The expression upon her face was pained and the words she spoke were words that should've been cracked with sobs, not spoken in monotone like she was now. It was like all her feelings had been taken away, and she was simply recalling how she had once felt a long time ago.

Just as the Khajiit was about to offer her words of comfort, seeing as the Altmer was struggling to remain composed, she looked up to the left sharply and said, "Here we are."

There was a large arched and open doorway in the left wall of the passageway. She entered and Tsrazami followed her. Before they both entered, the room was alive with chitchat. As soon as they stepped over the threshold the people within immediately fell silent. Their piercing eyes bored into Tsrazami's skull and her usual careless, sassy confidence melted away. There were nine hooded people in all, excluding the Altmer who had guided her here, sat on wooden chairs that were arranged in a semi circle around the centre of the room. There were two chairs free – one near the middle of the semi circle and another at the centre of the room, facing the majority of the other chairs. Tsrazami realised that this must be the whole of the Black Hand of Cyrodiil and their personal Silencers.

"Good evening, Brothers and Sisters," the Altmer greeted them all, drawing up her black hood over her face, shadowing her eyes and highlighting her elevated cheekbones. She took a seat within the semi circle, and Tsrazami realised that the chair in the middle of the room was for her, so that the Listener, Black Hand and their Silencers could question her about the bad news she brought with her. She nervously deposited her tailed rear end on the delicate wooden frame, realising just how out of place she was in her bright green Enchanting robes.

"Greetings, Murderer." The figure nearest to the centre of the semi circle pulled the hood away from her face and indicated with a quick finger motion that the rest of the assassins should do so. Reluctantly, they obeyed.

"Are you the Listener?" Tsrazami blurted out and instantly regretted it as several of the Black Hand shot her murderous glares. If looks could kill... which, in the case of a powerful Mage, they jolly well could... but that wasn't the point.

"Please only speak when spoken to, Murderer, so that we may get this meeting over and done with as soon as possible." The Listener said it calmly, though the fact that the Listener herself was talking directly to Tsrazami made the Khajiit's nerves rattle no ends.

The Listener was an odd person. For a moment Tsrazami thought that she might be a vampire – with the red eyes and pale skin. However, the Listener proceeded to smile as warmly as she could, and the Khajiit was relieved to see that there were no incredibly long incisors sprouting from her gums.

She seemed to have the sharp elven bone structure and eyes of a Dunmer, Tsrazami noticed, and the soft, extremely fair flesh of a Nord. It was an odd mix. Her face was in deep contrast with the usual bluntness of Nord facial features, whilst her skin was quite the opposite of a Dark Elf's. She had unruly, curly black hair that cascaded around her shoulders. _Foolish humanoid girls, with their long hair! _thought Tsrazami, _It must surely get in the way during contracts – and all the blood that must get matted in it! Disgusting! _

"What is your name, Murderer?"

"Tsrazami, dear Listener."

"And why have you come here, Tsrazami? What important information is it that you bring?"

The Khajiit hesitated. She knew the Dark Brotherhood was a murderous guild – heck, they were paid for it, and she was part of it! – and wondered momentarily whether any of them were reckless enough to shoot the messenger if they didn't like the news she brought.

"Come on, Tsrazami, you've come too far from Vvardenfell to let me down now," the Listener urged, leaning forward in her chair and getting right in the Khajiit's face. "Tell me. Now."

Tsrazami sighed. "Please, Listener, do not take your anger out on poor Tsrazami, I beg of you." The Khajiit only referred to herself in the third person when she was terribly nervous or suspicious.

The Listener looked mildly surprised, and then smiled reassuringly again. "I wouldn't dare harm a family member unless it was Sithis's will, and He does not beckon for your blood this day. Continue, Tsrazami."

_Surely her cheeks hurt eventually from that entire positive attitude? _Tsrazami pondered briefly, and then swallowed audibly.

She took a deep breath, and let out in a gasp, "The whole of the Morag Tong Guild has arrived in Cyrodiil. They have gained the legal rights to operate in other provinces than Morrowind, under the condition that they help track down and obliterate the whole of the Dark Brotherhood."

And the meeting erupted into chaos.

...

**Thanks for reading. I hope you liked it so far :) Reviews are really appreciated, as well as feedback and constructive criticism.**


	2. The Stalker is Stalked

**So, finally, the second chapter is up. I'll be updating more frequently now, as the Christmas holidays are coming up! Hurrah! (Planning on writing a short fanfic for Christmas, set in Skyrim. Might happen, might not...)**

**Hope you enjoy this... surprisingly long chapter. I had originally intended to split it into two chapters, but decided to keep it as it is.**

**Have fun reading!**

**Cold Embrace**

_Chapter 2: The Stalker is Stalked _

Cyra wasn't your average stuck-up noble, granted, but she was obnoxious enough to let any fool who approached her know of her upper-class status. It was certainly no surprise that just a few prayers to the Night Mother and a couple of words whispered from the Unholy Matron's very own deadly lips settled her fate.

The noblewoman started the day like she was supposed to – and of course, unbeknown to her, her weekly routine had been closely watched by a mysterious, morbid cult.

"Mistress Cyra, please, get up, Ancus will be at the meeting point already," urged Cyra's Bosmer maid, shaking her mistress awake.

"The matter may be urgent, Valadiil, but do not forget whom you are addressing," Cyra snapped half-heartedly, upon awakening in a groggy, foul mood.

Valadiil took a step back from her mistress's bed and bowed her head apologetically. "Yes, milady... but it'll be light outside soon... and I thought you wanted to meet the beggar with utmost discretion."

"That's no reason to waken me so... violently!"

A few weeks ago the Waterfront beggar, Puny Ancus, had been even more strapped for cash than usual and had attempted to pick-pocket the rich noblewoman – to Cyra's immediate reaction of yelping and slapping his hand away from her purse. The Imperial Watch hadn't seen, however, and she promised Ancus that she wouldn't report him, under the condition that he met her once a week in the secrecy of the early morning to give her three quarters of his earnings.

Ancus obliged – it was that or the Imperial Prison, and he was by no means ready yet to waste away in a cold, cruel cell underground. Unfortunately, this arrangement soon acted against Ancus, for he hardly had any money left to feed himself for a single day, let alone a whole week.

Eventually, he became in-debt to Cyra and ended up with no money at all.

The only way he knew of to squirm out of this situation was to have Cyra 'taken care of'.

Cyra hurried through the lamp-lit streets of the Imperial City, wearing the simplest, most worn cloak that she could possibly find in her expensive wardrobe, all the way to the meeting point – a small, colourful backyard in the Elven Gardens District.

There was indeed someone waiting for her there, but it wasn't Puny Ancus.

Pained screams and blood curdling shrieks awoke the nearest resident from their light slumber, causing them to rush to the yard to find and quieten the source of the horrifying noise. However, by the time they reached the yard, all there was to see was the mangled body of Cyra Silversmith, staring up into the dawning sky unblinkingly, blood spattered across her once beautiful face and the blue flower plantation coated with gore nearby.

At the funeral in Green Emperor Way, no one shed a tear except for Valadiil, and that was one of joy. No one noticed the black robed figure standing at the back of the crowd with a smug, Cheshire cat grin.

...

Silvio had prolonged the wench's suffering until he grew bored. Fortunately, for a handful of his victims, he grew bored easily. Unfortunately, for another set of victims, he found new, entertaining ways to torture their souls and send them violently to the Void – to deplete his boredom.

By nature, he was a bully – a murderously creative one at that, too. His targets died in different ways every single time, usually satisfying the contacts wishes and more.

There were two words that summed him up perfectly: dangerously insane – or used in reverse, as insanely dangerous. His extreme paranoia made him hard and calculating, a trait seen in many experienced assassins. His pleasure in killing and prowess with a blade also made him exactly right for his profession.

In life he'd started out as a middle-class boy, with nothing to lose and nothing to gain. Despite his relatively comfortable dwellings, easy lifestyle, and the peaceful way in which his parents always tried to bring him up in, he enjoyed other people's pain. His constant paranoia set him apart from making friends with other children his age at the time.

Silvio's initiation mission into the Dark Brotherhood had been to kill his parents. He had fulfilled the task without hesitation. The Night Mother had chosen well.

The day he killed Cyra was probably the hundredth contract he had carried out successfully since joining the Brotherhood. Where others found it odd that a beggar wanted a noblewoman dead – a beggar that associated with the strict no-kill rule of the Thieves' Guild, no less – Silvio simply didn't care for the reasoning. Rather, he thought himself lucky that he was to be given the pleasure of yet another murder.

Maybe someone did see him at the funeral, because as he slithered through the Talos Plaza District, he had the significant feeling of eyes burning into his back, and it wasn't just his paranoia. He stepped into one of the alleyways and waited for his follower to go past, so that he could pull him into the alley and question him. Or kill him – either one... probably both.

The follower stepped past and Silvio lashed out, firstly delivering a stunningly solid blow to the jaw and a winding one to the stomach, then while the man was bent over and clutching his belly, the assassin punched into the back of his head, sending the person face first into the cobbles. The man lay there, panting, already defeated.

Silvio grabbed the collar of his worn sackcloth shirt and hauled him upright. He noted with bemusement that he was a lot taller than Silvio. Surprisingly, the man was young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen with piercing blue eyes that bored into the assassin's. Not even a man, a kid. His aquiline features gave him a brave, noble appearance – though the blood dribbling down his upper lip from his nose marred that slightly.

"Why are you following me?" That was Silvio – brutal and straight to the point.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the teenager immediately answered huffily.

"Answer the question or see your guts firsthand."

The young man evidently thought that it was an experience he didn't need. "Yes, fine. I was following you."

"Why?"

He raised his chin defiantly.

Silvio kneed him where it hurt and he doubled over. "Tell."

"I-I... I know who you are," the kid said shakily, "you're one of them assassins. Dark Brotherhood type. You're the one who killed Miss Silversmith."

The way Silvio stared at him, he knew he was going to die whether he told the assassin the truth or not.

"Please do continue," Silvio hissed, tightening his hold on his new victim's collar, "I haven't got all day."

"I was paid by a strange man," he continued nervously, "he gave me a thousand septims to follow you. It was hard, but I got used to your schedule in the last week. All you really did was watch that Silversmith lady."

"Be a little more specific. What did the man look like? Did he say _why_ he wanted you to follow me?"

"I don't know what he looked like."

Silvio raised his hand threateningly. "Perhaps I can help you remember?"

"I swear! He was wearing this old cloak, couldn't see his face. But his eyes... they were red."

"A Dunmer or a vampire, then. That wasn't so hard, was it now?" Silvio seethed.

"N-no..."

"And why did he want you to follow me?"

"He didn't say... I mean, I wasn't exactly asking. He was putting a _thousand septims _on the table. I would've been a fool to refuse," the kid explained, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with the unpredictable assassin.

"Hmm. So what did he say?"

"He had this poster of you and he told me 'follow this man and I'll pay you a thousand septims'. He said you were a member of the Dark Brotherhood and that he was trying to bring you down."

"A _poster_!" Silvio exclaimed in outrage. "He had a _poster _of me? You're kidding."

"I'm serious! I swear!"

"You were foolish to take the money, kid," Silvio hissed, "you should've taken the hint when he said I was an assassin."

"A thousand septims," the teenager reminded Silvio weakly.

"To hell with you," Silvio muttered. "Where were you going to meet this man for your money?"

"Elven Gardens District tonight. Same garden where you killed that woman, actually."

Silvio glared accusingly at the kid. "You're going to run off and tell the city guard now, aren't you?"

"No..."

"Liar."

"I won't! I promise, honest. I'll pretend I never got offered that money if you'll just let me go," the young man pleaded with him.

"Perhaps," Silvio mused, "you could help me."

His hand moved from the kid's collar to his belt. He pulled out a piece of paper from it and unrolled it – indeed, it was the poster of him. It wasn't quite accurate, but still recognisable. Silvio couldn't quite believe it – he had never once been caught, never been seen. Or so he had thought, up until now. Someone had actually had the time to _draw _a _portrait_ of him to put on a _wanted poster_?

The only people who could have the time to do that were in the Cheydinhal sanctuary, where his sleeping quarters were.

Silvio froze – a traitor. Was that possible? After all, they did have a few Dunmer at the Cheydinhal sanctuary, and a vampire. He had to warn the Listener.

...

"Silence."

The room fell quiet as soon as the Listener, who had remained incredibly calm, uttered the word. It wasn't even spoken loudly – she had the respect of her people, her Black Hand, even under the simplest of commands.

"Thank you. Now, Tsrazami, is there anything else you need to tell us?" she asked patiently.

Tsrazami's eyes darted about the room nervous, taking in the uncomfortable silence and glares coming from her audience. "That's all we know, Listener."

The Listener exhaled. She had faced a lot in her time on top of the Dark Brotherhood. She had seen her lover ripped apart by the people closest to him, a great betrayal resulting in the murder of her entire family... there wasn't much left for her to be surprised at. Even though she knew very little about them, an attack from the Morag Tong didn't exactly shock her. It had only been a matter of time – a bomb that would eventually go off, but no one knew when... and now it had happened. It had blown up right in their faces.

"So we don't know when they'll attack, where they'll attack and how they will attack," the Listener muttered under her breath.

"No, Listener," the Khajiit said apologetically, "Tsrazami is sorry."

"It's alright, it's not your fault," the Listener waved the apology away, "you've warned us of the coming danger." She turned to her Black Hand. "When you return to your Sanctuaries, make sure you tell the entire family. If there's a chance of an attack, everyone has to know."

A chorus of agreement sounded through the air and Tsrazami was beginning to feel a whole lot better about the whole situation – they would be prepared. She didn't have to go to any further ends – perfect. But she wasn't exactly looking forward to journeying immediately back to Morrowind after such a short meeting.

"Listener, may I be so bold to ask..."

"Yes, Tsrazami, you may stay the night – and please, call me Ravuna. That title is... tiring."

"Oh... oh, of course, Listener Ravuna." It was like the woman was a mind reader.

"Just Ravuna."

"Of course, Ravuna."

The Listener smiled. "Good, you've gotten the hang of treating me like a mortal." She then addressed the Black Hand once again. "Meeting dismissed. Next week we shall hold a ritual in Bravil in the name of the Night Mother for guidance."

There was a smattering of murmurs, and then the Black Hand stood and dispersed, slowly streaming out of the room in pairs and threes. Only Arquen, the Listener and Tsrazami were left.

"I shall take the Khajiit to her quarters, Listener," Arquen said. Tsrazami absently wondered if she had no emotions whatsoever. She wouldn't be surprised if she didn't.

"Thank you, Arquen," the Listener responded gently, smiled, and made her way back to the entrance of the Sanctuary.

"Follow me." Arquen waved her hand at the Khajiit and Tsrazami tagged along, until they stopped at the bottom of a step of stairs. There was a great iron door, which Arquen pushed open to reveal a stone slab of a bed and a table with dusty tomes piled upon it.

"No one has slept in here for a long time," the Altmer explained, "as we've been reserving it for special guests. Make yourself at home. There should be blankets in the cupboard."

Tsrazami bowed her head in gratitude as Arquen left, and settled down at the table. Not only were there dusty books, but dusty apples and carrots too. She found herself wondering just how long it had been since someone had inhabited this room. Maybe they died in here.

She shivered at the thought. She wished Ungolim was still here. The new Listener was nice enough, but there was something about her that Tsrazami didn't quite like. Was it her confidence? No, she respected that. Was it maybe the fact that she couldn't put a finger on whether she was a Dunmer or a Nord, two races that were very different? That might've been part of it.

There was a knock at the door, and Tsrazami jumped out of the chair. This place was surprising her no ends. "Enter," she called out shakily.

A smiling face popped out from behind the door. "Hello there," came its cheery greeting.

"Hello..."

"I was just wondering how you were getting on," the face continued, gradually becoming a full body as the newcomer entered the room. He was a Dunmer as anyone could tell by his skin, which had a slight hue of purple to it. The smile never vanished from his face as he walked in and spoke, which crinkled up his eyes, leaving Tsrazami only to assume that they were red, like any other Dunmer's.

The Khajiit eyed him warily. He seemed somewhat familiar, and she didn't know why. She'd never met him, but the way he kept smiling reminded her of someone back in Morrowind – yet she couldn't remember who.

"Not too warm in here, is it?" he continued when Tsrazami didn't reply. "You should probably get those blankets out."

"Who are you?" Tsrazami eventually asked.

"Oh, forgive me! How could I be so rude as to not introduce myself?" He gave a little bow, his hand curling in a grand gesture. "Knot Garom Uthenis, at your service. You can just call me Knot."

Tsrazami smiled at his enthusiasm. "Knot – that's an unusual name."

"Indeed," Knot agreed heartily, "I got it when I first joined the Dark Brotherhood. For my initiation I hung my target from the ceiling beam of his house."

"Uh... creative," commented Tsrazami blankly. She killed because it was the only thing she was good at, and she was getting paid for it. She didn't find it particularly fun, although she had friends back in Morrowind who definitely did.

"Ooh, I'm glad you think so! What's your name, Sister? I heard you came all the way from Vivec!"

"Tsrazami and, yes, I did."

"My father used to live there," he said wistfully, evidently recalling old memories, "under the first canton. Set up a stall there, too."

"Oh, you lived there?"

"No, I lived in Balmora. Nice place, that was. All the guildhalls you could imagine, right there in the centre." He laughed. "Except for the Dark Brotherhood."

Tsrazami smiled at him again. "You're quite cheery."

"I guess I am! Father always told me to be happy, and now here I am, being happy in what I do." He paused and his eyes widened. The Khajiit could finally see them. They were scarlet, as expected, but surprisingly round and childlike compared to his tall and trim body structure. "Oh, I said I'd meet some friends for target practice! Sorry, Tsrazami. It was nice meeting you!"

"Likewise... _Knot_," Tsrazami replied as he fled from the room. At least there were _some _nice people in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, even if they were a little eccentric.

Sighing, she fetched the blankets from the cupboard and laid them out on the stone slab, though she very much doubted their ability to make the 'bed' any more comfortable. Eventually, she fell into a restless sleep, though she was soon to be awoken by a visitor in the night.

**Thanks for reading!**

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